


Red, Black, and Blue are the Colors that Taught Me to Love You

by GhostThea



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Gay Keith (Voltron), Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Keith has a motorcycle, M/M, Self-Harm, Shiro has a motorcycle, Some fluff too, Suicide Attempt, Tags Are Hard, Therapy, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, broganes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25887340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostThea/pseuds/GhostThea
Summary: First off- TRIGGER WARNINGThis fic has grapic and detailed descriptions of self-harm and suicide. Please take care of yourself and pass this one by if reading those things will be harmful. You matter to someone, don't give up.Red has been Keith's favorite color. Red like his motorcycle and red like summer sunrises. Keith also hates the color red, because he sees it on busted lips and broken fingers, in flushed faces and angry mouths. He sees it shimmering on his skin. He hates red and he hates himself so it ends up fitting anyway.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 96





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Quick but important note here guys, 
> 
> Reffernces to SH and suicidal thoughts will be prevelent throughout all of the chapters, please if that will hurts you in anyway don't read this one. Also a slight mention of past-abuse, but nothing graphic.

“Shiro you didn’t.” 

“I did.” 

Keith gapes at the forgein object taking up space in their tiny garage. It’s lean and cherry red, glaringly bold against the classy black of the bike next to it. “I don’t even have my license yet.” Shiro smiles and puts a hand on his shoulder, fingers digging foundly into the fabric. “Yeah, but that gives you time to learn.” Keith takes the time to glare at him before the awe is back. Shiro chuckles, but his eyes light up in fondness and his happiness leaks out in the pink that dusts his ears.

“You’ll teach me?” 

“I’ll teach you.” 

Keith doesn’t have room for self-doubt. He can’t feel anything but the anticipation, the pounding drive to learn, the joy that comes with the freedom Shiro just handed him. For the first time in a long time, Keith doesn’t have room to hate himself. The sky is black, when Shiro takes him to an empty parking lot and they practice. It’s black when they get home. His cheeks burn pink in the night air. Keith is a little dirty, the palms of his hands a little sore, and the gloves Shiro gives him are black. His hands don’t hurt anymore. 

The first person he calls is Lance. Obviously it was just to brag, but it felt more like gushing and Lance was almost excited as he was. The sky is blue out of the window two stories up, as Keith watches the lazily drifting clouds, tending the fizzling spark that jumps along his ribs and he knows Lance has one too. Soon the conversation devolved into desperate attempts to convince Lance that no, he couldn’t come over right now and see it, and that no he could absolutely not borrow it to go pick up chicks. Keith doesn’t mind, because it’s Lance and that’s how he is. Keith doesn’t have the heart to tell him riding bitch kind of sucks as he smiles into the phone and listens to Lance plan out their highschool experience, filled with blue summer skies and grey waves that smell like salt. 

There is room eventually, a few late nights, a few more failed tests, a few hard classes, a few more papers smeared in red ink. The doubt and hate come crawling back, and Keith can’t do anything but let it out in lunchroom brawls and slamming classroom doors. He sees red on busted lips and broken fingers. Freshman freedom, as Lance proclaimed it with an arm slung over his shoulder, was the exact opposite of what Keith felt. Sometimes he wonders if hate will always be the standard, if the emotion had made a permanent home in his heart. And right now, waiting outside another closed door as Shiro talks to faculty in lowered voices, he doesn’t know if he can handle anymore of it.


	2. Chapter 1

“Uh, hey Lance?” Lance looked up from his textbook, dark rimmed eyes and that stupid lopsided smile. “yeah?” 

Keith fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, looking like he was about to ask a favor that involved hiding an absurd amount of bodies. “Please don’t tell me you lost the cat again.”  
Keith looked up, horrified. “That was one time! And I love Lion, she’s just adventurous, it wasn’t even really my fault anyway.” He muttered, but cleared his throat and had enough dignity to glare at lance before the look softened back to embarrassment. 

“Just here. I made it…. for you, I guess.” He shoved the bracelet into Lance’s hands and took a steadying breath. “I know life’s been kinda hard right now and stuff so.. yeah.” He turned away muttering “It’s not a big deal though. You don’t have to wear it.” But he snuck enough worried glances for Lance to assume it was kind of a big deal. He runs his hands over the neat knots almost reverently, admiring the craftsmanship, the blues and browns and greys. “Oh my god dude, you did not make me a friendship bracelet.”  
He looks at Keith with a devious grin. “Im telling Shiro!” Keith blushes a shade almost as dark as his jacket, pink staining the even planes of his face. “Don’t! And it’s just a therapy thing Allura forced me into, anger issues and stuff. You don’t have to wear it or anything.” Lance’s smile softens a bit into something more genuine. “It reminds me of the ocean.” And Keith freezes, a deer caught in the headlights, but Lance can make out the pleased smile that threatens to tug at the corners of his mouth before he turns away again and coughs awkwardly into his elbow. “I bet you have a matching one.” 

“I don’t!” 

“Let me see your wrist then.” 

Keith winces, for a second it’s freshman year. It’s three failed classes and too many detentions and that kid with a broken nose he left in the parking lot behind the school. It’s Shiro’s anger, a mask of shadows and a voice that isn’t Shiro’s and Keith is yelling words that crept out of his throat and he doesn’t mean and then it’s bruised knuckles and a jaw that rots into shades of purple on the only person who had ever cared about him. His hands are red, throbbing from the impact. It’s so much anger and guilt and he hates himself with such wretchedness that it needs to come out and he sees a red that glistens for the first time. It’s new and vibrant and out of place on his arms, his thighs, his stomach, but he can’t think of anything else or feel anything else other than hate but now it’s better. 

It’s tangible and out in the open, seeping from his broken skin and it isn’t boiling him from the inside out anymore. And he’s bitter, because now he fits the mold and maybe Shiro was right. Maybe he did need therapy, this sure as hell wasn't normal. Or maybe he had always been an outcast, a freak, and now it had caught up with him. But it’s not freshman year. There is no open skin. Only scars and Lance’s lifting tease that makes his eyes shine a brighter shade of blue. 

“Lance...” 

“Let me see Keith!” 

Keith chokes anyway, but no one seems to notice and there is no way any of this will ever be mentioned to Allura and her stupid voice that might, the tinnest bit, make him feel like he is heard. 

Then Lance grabs for the cuffs of his jacket and they are rolling down the hallway, pushing and kicking and laughing between taunts and it feels familiar. Safe. Grappling and grasping at ankles, throwing elbows and trading blows that have no intention of landing. It’s the raucous laughter that bubbles between them, stolen breaths between messily thrown punches and elbows seeking soft skin. It’s Lance's hyena cackle as he knocks Keith to the floor, the victorious smile that’s wiped clean when Keith locks his knee behind Lance's and they tumble away again. It’s the blue denim of Lance’s frayed jacket, course beneath his clutching hands. Ducking dodging, a whirlwind of shuffling fabric and eventually they collapse with heaving chests. They lay on their backs in the middle of Lance's messy living room, the score settled somewhere between a draw.  
Keith thinks he won, with his jacket intact and no prying eyes that linger on the bracelet that wraps his wrist in familiar shades of red that bleed purple in the low light. Lance thinks he won too, because Keith smiles at him and they both can’t breathe long enough to stop the giddiness that is left in the wake of their chaos. They dig their toes into the ugly pink carpet that might have been tan, but it's collected too many spilled drinks and missing teeth to be quite the right shade. 

There is no room for hate, when Keith swings his leg over a red motorcycle with scuffed paint to match his raw knees and okay maybe we went a little too fast and has always been a little too reckless. There is no room for hate when Lance tsks at his gloved peace sign and revved engine. There is no room for anything but content when Lace yells at his back to actually study and the carelessly tossed- drive safe. And maybe, just because, Keith mostly does the speed limit and only runs one red light, because he has always been a little bit reckless, but it’s tempered by Shiro’s smile when he wore short sleeves again, the glinting black of his bike when they rode into town together. And it’s tempered by Lance, a few miles back, clutching a phone cased in blue that matches his eyes, waiting for a dumb text or a meme that he will claim to be responble for the death of at least 100 brain cells. Keith looks up and smiles at the fading sky, wrapped the softest shade of blue and dotted with swollen cotton candy clouds. The old scars under his jacket sleeves are silver like new stars. 

But those days never last and storm clouds gather anyway, their underbellies cast in shades of crimson from the fire of a slow-rising sun. The hate always creeps back between badly written essays squandered in red pen and the chiding horror of an uncertain future that wilts the leaves of his passions to brittle copper. Maybe he has been rusted out for far too long, and no amount of Lance jokes or Shiro hugs or feeling fests with Allura can fix him. Maybe he doesn’t have the capacity for anything other than red emotions that spill from split skin. He doesn’t really remember what happened. 

It had started with a 20 on a math test- which always sets Keith on edge. And maybe Lance had snapped the red bracelet on his wrist with that teasing smile of his and Keith felt broken and whole at the same time and that might have been when someone on the baseball team threw a slur in their direction. Keith can’t remember who it was for, but it didn’t really matter because it ended with throbbing knuckles, purple ribs and a black eye. He is just so angry and it’s a flash flood that tears him apart at the seams. He had only seen red, the bitter taste of hate burned along his tongue and he let it out with a war bellow that turned into throwing punches in the middle of a crowded hallway. Maybe he broke that guy’s arm. Maybe it was Lance who finally hauled him away before the bones in his hands crumpled in on themselves. Maybe Keith has always been too full of hate to coexist, with veins that run red instead of blue. 

Keith is just as full of hate, a ragged unjust kind of hate that grates against his insides, when the authorities decide his fate. Another suspension. He goes home and waits for Shiro, who would have gotten the call and that hate twists and writhes until it’s too tangled up for Keith to decide who it’s for. The jingling of keys on the counter forces his walls up, and already with Shiro frowning at him, arms crossed over his chest, Keith feels defensive. Brick after brick stacks up the closer his brother gets to the couch and then Keith is on his feet, mirroring the posture, but he can’t look Shiro in the eye. There is no screaming, no trading insults that come to blows. Shiro is black, with his dark hair and steady expression, a stubborn shadow that looms against the wall. Shiro’s gentle “Again Keith? It’s been awhile.” That drips disapproval thicker than concern is ink that throbs red as it settles under Keith’s skin. All he can force himself to murmur is “I know.” 

“I made you an appointment with Allura tomorrow, you have to go. No buts.” 

“I know.” 

“You can’t keep doing this Keith, you will run out of chances.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m worried about you.” 

“I know.” 

And Shiro sighs and wraps him in a hug that’s a little too tight and a little too desperate and the hate is still scalding his insides and he already knows where this is going. It only makes him burn more. Shiro is diluted to grey, as he watches Keith vanish into his room. Tired eyes and thin skin that crumbles into shades of ash on the fire escape. Shiro hasn’t smoked in years. The end of a cigarette glows red before it fades to smoke. It leaves crushed black on the railing, and Shiro throws the whole pack away. The taste is terrible under his tongue. 

Keith can’t feel anything but hate. The kind of hate that makes him reckless and lights the quick fire fuse that turns to explosions inside his skull. His sheets are too hot, and already he has done enough pushups to turn his arms to jello. His insides still writhe. He knows how to fix it. The pit that lines it’s sides with lies. The one he just crawled out of. It’s been a year, he screams into the hole. It doesn’t care. But he doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want another Freshman year. He doesn't want more scars. He does it anyway, because something about it feels inevitable. And maybe that’s the first step off the deep end. 

The lights are harsh, and absently his fingers find the hidden blade. The one Shiro didn’t find. The one that glitters coldly in the palm of his hand. The one he stares at until the night numbers glisten on his watch. The hate is fluttering and his thoughts keep knocking into his skull with enough force to mash his mind to mush and he doesn’t even really feel it when the blade bites into his forearm. He isn’t smart about it. He isn’t careful. No planned shoulder spots or hiding lines on his upper thighs. It’s ugly and messy and red. Hate that spills like a boiling sea from the separated skin. And it’s enough of a fix that the guilt doesn’t reach him, when the bracelet on his wrist collects another shade of red. It’s a wicked relief, curled on a tile floor, a damp washcloth pressed to seeping flesh. His veins feel empty. He feels empty. And it’s better than boiling over. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He always hates himself more, the morning after. The sting in the shower, the panic of searching for clean sweatshirts and running through excuse after excuse. Keith shrugs his motorcycle jacket over his shoulders, making sure the sleeves didn’t ride up as he reached for his keys. Lion bends herself around his legs, purring hard enough to combust. He remembers to feed her, and his soul settles a little bit as she munches happily, the tags clinking merrily on her blue collar. 

His arms throb on the ride to school, and the reminder of his failures send him spiraling. He knows how easy it would be, to climb up the gears, watching the numbers get higher and higher and then close his eyes and wait. It would take a breath, a too long moment, nothing but the wind against his visor and the roaring emptiness behind him. Paint scuffed on a concrete barrier, a crippled bike, a ragdoll body- tragic they would call it. An accident, another reckless son who didn’t know any better and wouldn’t come home. But then he sees Shiro’s crumpled face, the guilt, because he bought his little brother a bike at fifteen and it killed him at seventeen and what if what if what if. He couldn’t do that to Shiro. So he pulls into the junior parking lot and listens to his bike thrum, and he loves Shiro a little harder and hates himself a little more and his hands are still red and black and sore as he takes off his gloves. 

Homeroom is a bore, with too many faces and not enough to do. His knee bounces, and he stares at the fraying fabric of his jeans, tries to count the thread, measure the hole that exposes his knee. Anything to keep his mind from analyzing the chipmunk chatter around him, plaster faces hiding the cracks in their skin and the bags under their eyes. High school makes even garden snakes venomous. Two minutes after the bell and about fifteen seconds before the teacher starts making demands, a body plops into the chair next to him and snorts. 

“Dude I appreciate the aesthetic, but are you seriously going to wear that all day? It’s like 80 degrees out.” 

“There’s AC.” 

Lance rolls his eyes, and looks like he’s going to make another jab but the teacher is beginning to make headway in his ongoing pursuit for teenaged attention. For the slightest of moments, Keith is thankful for prison rules and tightly wound teachers with too much effort and not enough reward. The anxiety is crippling, every pair of eyes searching for holes in his facade. They can zero in on the slightest slip of his sleeve, see the ugly lines that scrawl from wrist to elbow. Picking apart the oily shine of his swollen eye, the purple creeping along his jaw, the angry skin on his knuckles. Eyes that make him shrink a little lower into his seat. Even as he turns around, Lance is tapping out a tune on the other side of the table. From the corner of his eye Keith can see the bracelet on his wrist, fraying slightly but still tied tight, and it gives him a little bit of hope. Blue that leaks into the red around his heart and softens the shade. It’s warm in the bottom of his chest until his arms itch and he remembers his web of lies, the hopelessness of existence, the pitfall he takes over and over again, and he wonders, as the announcements buzz over the intercom, if this will be the cycle that finally gets him. He pulls his sleeves down further so they cover his palms.

Lance doesn't bug him about his jacket again, but he can feel eyes on him in the hallways as he breaks for the exit. He forgets to say goodbye to Lance. His arms sting and itch when they push against the fabric of his jacket and he is drowning in red leather. 

He doesn’t have the strength to seeth as he curls into the overstuffed couch in Allura’s office. He doesn’t have the strength to make his face do anything but sit, a pale void that watches the world come into focus. Numb is better than burning. He decides. Empty is better than hate. “Keith, are you cold? I can turn down the AC so you can take off your jacket.” 

And he panics, because there is Allura with soft eyes and she knows she knows she knows. “Um no. It’s fine.” And she stares at him a little harder and he fidgets with the red bracelet on his wrist, twisting the strands under the cuff of his sleeve. “You seem a little tired today, anything you want to talk about?” 

And she knows and she knows and she knows. 

“I mean, I guess Shiro already told you. About uh I got suspended for fighting….again. I picked up my classwork today.” 

She hums thoughtfully, and Keith tries to hide his swollen knuckles, wishing the bruise around his eye was less dark and less ugly. He wishes a lot of things were less dark and less ugly. They aren’t. “Do you want to go through a few more exercises so you can use them when you're in a similar situation? Or we can try something new.” 

Keith is hot. Burning under the collar of his leather jacket, but he does the exercises anyway, even though he can never remember them when it’s red. It’s always red when he fights and it’s always red when he cuts. It’s always red when he hates. 

“I um, gave Lance his bracelet.” He admits, the words falling a little too quickly out of his mouth but Allura keeps giving him that gentle smile and the guilt is craving holes in his stomach. “Keith that’s wonderful!” And she seems so dazzlingly proud of him. “Uh yeah, I- I like doing things with my hands. I think he liked it. I hope he liked it.” The pink on his cheeks matches her glossy nail polish. Allura nods with the utmost certainty, “I’m sure he did Keith.” And Keith can’t help but believe her. 

Keith is working through his packet when Shiro gets home and immediately collapses on the couch next to him.  
“You’re home early, rough day?” But keith can’t help the feeling that Shiro is here because of him. Shiro just grunts and tilts his head back. “I uh- had a good session with Allura today.” Shiro’s smile is so chock full of relief that Keith almost flees right then and there. But he clears his throat instead and asks Shiro for help on a math problem he understands perfectly. The pen Shiro writes furiously with on a napkin is black, and the coffee cup he nurses is blue and maybe Keith feels better than he has in a long time. And maybe Allura is good for him, and maybe this is too, as he sits at home and watches his red ink turn pink and then run out. 

The sky is as glossy as Shiro’s bike when they settle down in front of the TV after dinner. And in the blue-screen glow Shiro smiles shyly at him and gives him a bracelet. It's knotted with embroidery thread, just like his, but the craftsmanship is a little messier and its black and silver and midnight blue. His heart thumps in happiness as he gapes at Shiro. He is fifteen again, starting at a cherry red motorcycle, and he loves the little bracelet in his palm just as much. As he tackles Shiro and promptly punches his shoulder for being a sap, there is no room for hate. The shadows are black and blue and his eyes are rimmed in pink. He wants to cry, because hope is a crashing wave that leaves him smothered. He doesn't deserve Shiro, because the little black band on his wrist matches the bruising around his eye, and he never wants that color on his skin again.


	3. Chapter 2

A week later Keith rides to school with two bracelets on his wrist. He doesn't run any red lights. He doesn't go the speed limit. He doesn’t think about death. It’s familiar to lean back in his chair and tease Lance about that one time he got kicked out of driver’s ed freshman year. He even laughs at the glare that is much too lax to signal any kind of offense. 

Lance’s denim jacket is washed out blue under the dusty light in the hallways. Keith holds a math test with a 92% written at the top. He doesn't remember what Lance is talking about, something about summer break and cute girls in swimsuits, but then there is a baseball that rocks his shoulder in the wrong direction and a sneering senior with red-rimmed eyes. 

Keith stops, and turns around. A flare of pride ignites in his chest when he doesn't flinch at the left-hook that comes for his jaw. He ducks, nerves screaming, red-hot blood pounding through his heavy veins. Its fight or flight, another showdown on lithium, an audience of cellphone screens and tired eyes. Lance’s eyes are wide. He knows what happens next, and there is a cold blue flame that flickers along the fingers of the hand that clamps onto his shoulder.

“Who the fuck do you think you are punk?! My brother lost his scholarship because of that broke arm you gave him.” The bodies around them cluster close, monsters lurking where the firelight can’t reach. The senior’s eyes are hard pieces of coal that glitter in the dim light of the hallway. “I’m going to teach you a lesson, and then you’ll see how easy it is to ruin someone’s life.” The pigment in his cheeks is rising to red, lava that bubbles to the surface and pushes against pounding capillaries. His breath is hot, oppressive and the hallway is too crowded for this type of thing. Keith doesn’t dodge the next fist. Color blooms behind his eyes, red burning into the black behind his lids. His lip splits, he feels knuckles cracking against his jaw. The force sends him stumbling backwards, head snapping back against the brick wall. The cracked title under his fingers sways slightly. The crowd murmurs, shifting uneasily. The senior smirks above him, fist blurred to reds and purples. “You can throw a punch better than you can take one, Kogane.” 

Keith looks at the red bracelet, dark stains edging at the lower knots. Shiro’s bracelet is below it, a comfort against his skin. It grounds him. He puts his fingers to his throbbing lip. He thinks of Shiro’s relieved smile, the road trip they were looking forward to. He can see the wide blue sky above them, the long stretch of asphalt like a dark scar through the desert. When he removes his hand from his face his fingers are red. The jacket that brushes his shoulder as Lance kneels beside him is blue. The bracelet on his wrist is black. The skin on his knuckles is healing to shades of pink. Keith gets up and walks away. 

Lance is fussing over his lip, but Keith is grinning, pulling the broken skin taunt without much concern. “I’m surprised you didn’t knock that prick on his back.” Lance says it like he’s guilty, but Keith meets blue eyes and smiles through the red that dribbles down his chin. “Me too.”

“Another fight, really?” Shiro pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I thought things were going well in your sessions.” 

“They are! It wasn’t my fault this time I swear.” 

“It never is.” Shiro is already pulling the neosporin from the cabinet. Keith tugs absently at the black band around his wrist, his jaw is throbbing. 

“I’m serious Shiro, I didn’t touch the guy. He hit me without any prompting. Ask Lance.” 

Shiro closes the cabinet door too hard. “Lance is not a credible source.” Keith isn’t sure whether to look offended on behalf of his best friend or sigh in defeat. 

“Just.. just stay close to home tonight, okay? And I’m bumping your appointment with Allura up to Thursday.” 

Keith pushes himself off the counter where he was leaning. “Shiro I told you I’m fine. And I told Lance I would be at his game Thursday.” Shiro doesn’t relent. His mouth is set in a thin line and Keith knows there is no room for reasoning anymore. 

“Why is it so hard to believe that I can do the right thing once and awhile?!” 

“You know that’s not what I meant Keith.” 

“Then what do you mean? Why don’t you believe me?” 

“It’s a little hard when you come home with another busted lip. Your eye hasn’t even healed yet!” 

Almost self-consciously Keith touches the tender skin around his eye before glaring at Shiro. “I’m going to Lance’s game.” Shiro crosses his arms over his chest. “No, You’re going to your session.” Keith snatches his jacket from the back of the couch, startling Lion. “I said I’m doing fine. I don’t need to listen to Allura’s stupid voice.” And that’s not entirely true, but the blood is pulsing under his skin too frantically to think about what comes hurtling out of his mouth. “They’re important Keith. They help you.“ He keeps moving, grabbing keys, pulling on his gloves. “They don’t!” His voice comes out too loud. “Don’t do this again Keith.” And Shiro is striding after him but there isn’t enough space and Keith is running hot enough to burst into flame. “You never listen!” 

“I’m trying!” 

“You don't trust me, never have!” 

“Well it’s hard sometimes when you come home half-dead and say you’re fine. You’re never fine! You hide things, you avoid you’re problems and sometimes I worry that one day you just won’t come home and it scares me Keith!” 

“Yeah well, it scares me too.” 

And that is the most honest thing that has ever come out of his mouth and he wants to take it back because Shiro looks so vulnerable, so hopelessly sad and frustrated. Keith doesn’t know what to do. He gets the hell out of dodge. 

“Keith.” It’s a warning, a plea, but he’s running now, away, away, from another hot stove and angry voices and Shiro’s worry is enough to knock the air from his lungs. “Keith!” The echo of a slamming door sounds like gunshots through the hallway. His bike is red. 

Keith doesn’t have time to read the speed limit signs. It’s the evening stillness. The wind roaring in his ears. It's the roar of the engine, drowning out the thoughts that get lost to white highway lines. It’s the vibrations of his bike that hide the shaking of his aching hands. It’s his throbbing pulse, a drumbeat that rushes the tempo. It’s glaring headlights. It’s a corner that’s too tight and a slide that scrapes the skin from his wrists. It’s hot asphalt and the banshee scream of locking brakes. It’s the dark sky and the hard road and maybe he has always been a little reckless. Maybe he has always gone too fast. Maybe he always finds himself in the same pitfall, regret, regret, regret. Taillights glow red against the broken earth and matted grass. His breath comes too hard and too fast. If that spill didn't kill him Shiro would. He wiggles his fingers, rolls his ankles, bends his knees. He sits up and pulls grass out of his visor. There is blood on his arms. His chest feels too tight and his limbs too loose and the second he takes his helmet off the night is too cold for August. 

He’s freshly sixteen, staring at the winding road that twists away like a long black snake. Maybe he clutches a little too tightly to the bars of his bike. Maybe he’s scared. But Shiro is beside him with a confident smile and a steady hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be fun Keith, trust me. I wouldn't take you out here if you weren't ready.” And he believes him. “Patience yields focus, don't go too fast.” It's the sunlight that glosses the finish of Shiro’s bike. It's the wide blue sky stretching above them. It's the nerves that turn to butterflies and settle back to joy. It's the satisfaction of the lean, the ocean glittering below the cliffs. It’s the black leather against his hands. 

And maybe Keith has always been a little bit reckless. And maybe he has always gone too fast. Because he ends up sitting on the gravel shoulder, head tipped back and laughing, totally uncaring of the tear on the shoulder of his jacket sleeve or that his hands are utterly trashed and he probably won't be able to walk on his ankle tomorrow. Shiro comes back for him, wide eyed with concern etched into his face and it only makes Keith laugh harder. Shiro is unsure whether to be angry or relieved. He settles on the latter eventually. 

But he’s not sixteen and Shiro is probably pacing their apartment and he really really really doesn't want to go home. His phone screen is cracked but usable. He has too many missed calls. He’s caught in the blue-screen glow for a moment, damn his arms hurt. But it’s his fault anyway so he calls the first contact that shows up. 

“Keith buddy, it's like nearly midnight what’s up? You good bro?” 

“Um yeah- im, good, I guess.” His voice cracks somewhere in the middle and he hates himself a little more. 

“Look Lance, I need a favor, kind of a big favor.” And Lance has the audacity to snort. “Well this isn't worrying at all, it's nearly midnight, I'm two face masks deep and then my best bud calls, sounding like hell and asks for a favor. Obviously I’m game, but if it's anything illegal man I am noping out of there and you’re on your own.” Keith almost smiles.

“I just need you to come pick me up, and uh bring your truck.” 

“Wouldn’t drive anything else, where are you?” 

And that's that. Keith leans his head back against the guard rail and tries to even his breathing. He doesn't know why his hands are shaking. He doesn’t deserve Lance. He wonders how things can fall so hard and so fast. How easy it is to screw everything up again. He wonders if it's worth trying to be better anymore. He feels small, leaning against the guard rail and just waiting. He feels 13, hiding under the bed with bated breath, recoiling from the heavy footsteps that echo up the narrow hallway. He feels 13, waiting in a stuffy office with a glaring receptionist, chest getting tighter and tighter the doors open and bounce against the bleak stone. He feels 13, curled as tight as he can manage, keeping all his soft places hidden as the belt buckle digs a little harder into his skin. He feels 13, handling the knife his mother gave him, dancing on the edge of a looming dropoff. He feels just as lost as 13. 

He feels exposed, in the hot glare of Lance’s headlights. With a cracked visor and raw hands and shredded sleeves. Lance doesn't ask any questions as they heave his bike into the truck. The mangled handlebars and gouged metal makes Keith feel a little sick. Maybe he just has a concussion. “Lance’s uber service, what's your destination?” It's impossible that Lance can be that jovial this late, but there he is, hair mussed and blue eyes bright. Lance is always blue, and Keith loves him a little more for it. “Home I guess. Aw man Shiro is going to kill me.” Keith bends forward and puts his head on his knees. A concussion was feeling more and more likely.   
Lance rests his hand on Keith’s back as he starts the truck, “You’ll survive buddy.” and it's enough of a comfort to keep Keith from bailing out the passenger door before they pull onto his street. 

The flickering bulb in the garage paints the side of Shiro’s set jaw in shades of red. “I really can’t do this tonight Shiro.” 

“You can’t do this tonight? It’s 1 in the morning Keith, you stormed out and wouldn’t answer your phone and now you show up with a trashed bike and expect me to just walk back up the stairs?!” 

“Yes, that would be nice.” He grits back a little too forcefully and Shiro looks absolutely murderous. 

“Well you know what would be nice? Not fucking staring at a clock all night wondering if you were dead in a ditch somewhere!” 

“Like you care.” Keith knows it’s not fair, and regrets the words as soon as they hang in the air between them. But he’s always been a little too reckless and has always gone a little too fast. Shiro slams the door on his way out. God his head hurts. Keith throws his ruined jacket to the floor. It glares in angry shades of red and Keith can’t remember a time when he hated himself this much. He works on pulling grass out of the frame of his bike and gently bending metal back to its original positioning until his fingers give up trying. Everything hurts when he creeps into the darkness of the apartment. The ache stays, nestled snug along his bones when his alarm goes off two hours later. He’s already running out of reasons. 

Shiro is gone when Keith leaves for school. He wasn’t expecting much else. He catches a ride with Lance instead, he’s thankful for the music that blares from the blown-out speakers. His arms are rubbed raw and red. He really doesn’t feel like existing. 

Lance tries. He tries so hard, with bad jokes and teasing jabs and mindless conversation that’s easy to slip into. Keith is too tired to offer up more than a luke-warm smile that settles a little unnaturally on his face and it's downright pitiful. He fiddles with the black bracelet on his wrist, trying and failing to find anything snarky to reply to Lance’s goading. It’s faded a bit, looking more ashen than the day Shiro gave it to him. He needs to tell Lance about missing his game. He needs to apologize to Shiro. He needs to fucking grow up and look Lance in the eye. He doesn't. 

If it’s even at all possible, Keith feels even smaller than last week, curled up in the overstuffed couch in Allura’s office. He really doesn’t want to listen to her voice. Shiro had picked him up and dropped him off, so there hadn't been any way out of it, and it was useless to argue, considering how closed off Shiro looked, staring blankly through the windshield. Allura is a little late, which isn't unusual. It is unfortunate however, considering it just leaves more time for Keith to sink into the oozing tar of his thoughts. He really doesn't want a feeling fest. He’s here anyway. 

One minute he is considering if the window is a viable exit strategy, and the next he is swept up into Allura’s cheerful greeting and flowing motion. “Keith, it's good to see you! A little bit earlier than usual, hm?”   
“Yeah.” He mutters, pressing his stinging palms to his thighs. His jacket is in tatters and he has never missed it more as Allura’s calculating eyes scan the raw skin on his arms. The healing cuts were invisible against the angry roadburn, which was his only saving grace. He still felt overexposed, and the lights were too bright, and Allura was too close, despite sitting on the chair opposite the couch, and he really doesn't want to deal with any of this right now. 

“Anything you want to talk about?” 

“No. Shiro made me come.” Her gaze softens a bit despite the bite he forces behind his words. “He is worried about you then.” 

“I know.” He whispers, more into his lap than at Allura but she hums thoughtfully anyway. Thye sit in silence for awhile. She is a quiet force, and all the red that is swirling inside him, rushing along his cordoring veins, wants to leak out his mouth when he isn't paying attention. It’s exhausting.  
“Is there anything you need to talk about?” She says after another few beats of his sledge-hammer heart. There is so much. So much he needs to say. So much that stays locked firmly behind his teeth. He takes a breath. This is good for him. He tugs at the fraying bracelet on his wrist and thinks of Shiro’s relief, his anger, his sad eyes and drawn brow. His plaster face cracks, just a little, and the next breath he takes burns right down to his belly. He is always burning. “I’ve been kind of self-destructive lately, I guess.” And his voice is so small he wonders if she even heard. But Allura always listens. She nods, but stays quiet and suddenly he is rushing to fill the silence because it's too heavy to linger like that. 

“I’m- um… spiraling. A little bit. I think.” And it physically hurts to admit that. It hurts to be anything other than strong, indifferent to an uncaring world. It hurts to slowly unravel and let his soft places be seen. But it seems he always ends up hurting, one way or another, so maybe it's time to hurt a little differently. Because Shiro is good for him, and Allura is good for him, and talking is good for him, even if he doesn't want to admit it. “And uh- I crashed my bike.” He rubs at his sore arms self-consciously. “It was my fault.. but it still sucked.” 

Allura smiles at him, one that spreads slowly across her face and shines warmly in her eyes. There is no judgment, or shame or tension. “The first step is to recognize the thoughts, so you’re already pulling yourself out Keith. I’m sorry you had a wreck, are you okay?”” And that makes him feel a little better, against all odds. “Yeah, nothing too serious, i'm working on fixing my bike.” Maybe he isn't hopeless. Maybe he isn't meant to hate. Maybe he can fix things with Shiro. Maybe this won't be the cycle that gets him. “I was thinking about what we do to help you handle emotions.” Allura starts. “And I made you this, if the bracelets help, keep making them. Give them to friends, strangers even. It’s healthy to do something with your hands, something you can focus on.” She smiles and reaches out, palm up. She offers him a pink bracelet, tied from embroidery thread like Shiro’s. It's a startling pop against the black and red already wrapping around his wrist, but he thinks it fits. It distracts from the angry skin on his arms, and he feels better than he had in a long time. Maybe, things could finally be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the next chapter! I hope everyone has been enjoying this fic so far. I have not decided on an update day, but we only have two more chapters until the end so I don't think it matters much. This is my frist ever fic ive shared, so it makes me really happy that people are reading it. Thanks for taking the time to invest a bit in this fic, it means a lot! Constructive critism and thoughts are always welcomed, see you next chapter :D


	4. Chapter 3

There is a new jacket sitting on the passenger seat when Shiro picks him up outside of Allura’s office. Keith looks Shiro in the eye, steady, unyielding, and can’t help the smile that twitches at the corner of his mouth. Maybe apologies are easier than he thought. There are things left unsaid. There are trampled egos and bruised feelings left in shadow-strewn corners, but for now, there is a tentative peace. A promise of getting around to unpacking those things. 

Shiro spends a couple of hours in the garage with him that night. They work until their knucles cramp and Keith starts dropping things. He falls asleep slumped on the stair. Shiro’s jacket under his cheek is black, it smells like home. 

“Oh my god Keith, Shiro is going to actually kill you this time.” 

“Hey, Shiro doesn't have to know anything, okay? Just get on.” 

Keith is leaning against a black motorcycle, red helmet tucked under his arm, grinning like a fool. Lance sighs, but swings his leg over, a hand on Keith’s shoulder for support. “Where are we even going?” Keith turns the key and the bike hums to life. He puts on his helmet, voice suddenly crackling through the comms. “Somewhere you’ll like.” 

There are three bracelets on his wrist as Shiro’s bike roars down back roads. Lance’s hands are a steady pressure on his waist as he goes just a little too fast. Shiro’s bike wasn't as agile as his, but it kicked a lot harder. Leaning into the curving cliff-side road, his insides rumbling with the throaty growl of the bike’s engine, Keith feels more okay than he has in a long time. Its Lance’s head leaned against his back, his hammering pulse, the thin black ribbon curling before them, the skin under his jacket that heals in rough pinks and silvers, the sun glinting off the ocean froth below. It's the blue of a felt sky, the pink shimmering under the evening clouds, the black gloss of Shiro’s bike. It's the salt-tinged air that has Lance sitting up, the distant throb of the waves against the rocks. It's his sudden laughter that Keith feels more than he hears. Its the sand and the sky and the gull cries that sound more like summer melodies. 

Lance has his shoes off before Keith can even turn off the bike, helmet discarded in the sand. For a warm moment, Keith just sits on his brother’s bike and watches as Lance digs his toes into the sand and lets the waves break against his ankles. The sea is a wild grey blue that reflects in the deepest depths of Lance’s eyes as he turns around to call him over. His smile rivals the sun sinking below the cliffs. They sing salt-songs off key and build sand castles that collapse before the shadows have time to settle. They fill the space between the setting of a summer sun with bad ideas and sea foam that finds a home in their hair. They laugh too loud and scream back at the gulls. They are a wild reckless youth, let loose to taunt the waves and grapple at ideas that are too big and have too many layers to fold neatly in their heads. It’s a wonderful existence.

The light leeches slowly from the sky, leaving the shadows to lengthen and swell into deep pits of ink. Keith sits up on the rocks, leaning back on his hands as he watches the stars begin to show. Lance is draped across the rocks, hands reaching for the retreating tide as he lays on his belly. He looked so young there, and Keith could taste the nostalgia heavy on the air. “How was your game? I’m sorry I missed it.” 

Lance cranes around to give him a small smile, “Obviously we skinned them. That’s what happens when you’ve got the best forward in this corner of the world.” Keith rolls his eyes, but chuckles anyway. “Well i'm glad someone is making up for our abysmal football ranking.” Lance laughs at that, his smile growing. “You know it!” They lapse into silence again, content to let the stillness swallow them. It's sea and salt and peace that coats his tongue in sweetness. It's the night breeze and young stars that make him blink a little longer and sigh a little deeper. It’s Lance and Shiro’s bike and the smell of new leather not quite worn in. It's the warm august air that seeps deep into his skin and leaves behind a sense of comfort that feels almost forgien in its serenity. 

“I miss soccer sometimes.” Keith admits, more a whisper than actual words. Lance hears it anyway and hums thoughtfully. “You were a hell of a goalkeeper. Only one stupid enough to block with your face, but hey whatever works.” Keith reaches out and smacks his shoulder playfully as Lance cackles. “It was a compliment!” He defends, but Keith is smiling and hits him again. “You should help me practice my shots sometime, there are few keepers who can derail this superstar.” Keith considers hitting Lance again but he’s too busy trying not to chuckle. “I’ll take you up on that offer.” 

The drive back is quiet. The night creeps in, one black shade at a time. One more silver star. One more moonbeam that dips the road in the soft colors unique to empty spaces where time can’t quite keep up. Lance is warm, as he leans heavily against Keith’s back. His breaths are slow, a steady rhythm that soothes somewhere deep in Keith’s aching soul. If anyone could fall asleep on a motorcycle it would be lance. Keith can’t help the breathy chuckle that leaks from his throat. “Hey, stay awake. We’re not home yet.” 

“You’re lucky I love you.” Shiro says as soon as Kieth cuts the engine. Keith guilty slinks away from the bike. “Shiro, i'm Sorry. I know I should have asked, but I wasn't really thinking and-” Shiro laughs, pushing himself off the doorframe and striding over to ruffle Keith’s hair affectionately. It takes all of Keith’s willpower not to elbow him in the ribs. “I’m not mad, you brought it back in one piece and it's nice to see you going out a bit more. I assume you took Lance somewhere?” He hates Shiro’s knowing smile. “Uh yeah- the beach actually.” Shiro nods, smiling gently before heading back towards the door. He pauses on the step suddenly. “Oh yeah, the parts we need are supposed to come Saturday.” Keith lights up. “Awesome!” 

Is this healing? Is this hope? Keith tugs at the bracelets on his wrist. Red. Black. Pink. Colors that light a warm flame within his chest that doesn't burn. He stares at the space Shiro left, the new jacket that smells like salt and Lance and home, the easy comfort of Shiro’s hand on his shoulder, the silver of the wrench on the workbench. His bike that looks less and less like a dead thing. Maybe, this is the last he will see of pitfalls and red feelings that scald his insides. 

Keith is waist deep in a brown box. He was so close to finally getting his bike back into commission. It set his fingers alight, they were moving too fast to do anything properly but he was just full of buzzing energy that filled him up and sloshed over into his movements. “Where the heck is the 3/8 extension.” He muttered, striding back to the workbench to rifle through too many drawers with too many cluttered tools. The garage door opening flooded the dim space with glaring sunlight. Keith straightens and brings a hand to shield his eyes. “The fuck..? Lance?”

“The one and only.” Lance spins himself around on a nearby stool, resting his elbows on his knees. “Whatcha up to mullet? It's the weekend!” Keith huffs, but can’t quite tamp down the surge of excitement as he locates the 3/8 extension. “What does it look like? How did you even get in here, did Shiro give you a clicker?” 

Lance just smirks, following Keith with his eyes as he moves around the small space. “He left his car unlocked. It was on the front seat.” Keith rolls his eyes before grabbing a handful of hardware from the box and shimming under his bike. “I swear the apartment is going to get ransacked and it will be his fault.” Lance laughs, rocking precariously on the stool. Keith sits up, smiling at the recuperating motorcycle. “It’ll be fixed soon. I can’t wait.” 

Lance frowns at this, staring pointedly at his knuckles. “Hey, Keith, maybe you should- I dunno, take it easy for a bit? I mean that spill was pretty serious.” Keith whips his head around so fast it hurts his neck. He stares at Lance, incredulous, for a long moment. “What?” He scoffs, standing up and crossing his arms over his chest. “I just went too fast. Things happen, it's not a big deal.” 

Lance obviously doesn't like that answer. “That's the problem man, you always go too fast!” And Lance is looking at him like Shiro does. The frustrated expression on Lance’s face curls into something sour in the bottom of his stomach and Keith doesn't really know why it makes him so angry. Maybe it’s because it's true. Maybe because he's heard it before. Maybe because Lance looks so worried and it fucking pisses him off. “I dont think it's any of your business what I do.” He’s stepping too close and Lance is standing up, fists balled at his sides. His heart clenches painfully and he hates the red that is roaring up to his neck. 

“Maybe it isn't, but if you would listen to me for one goddamn minute-” 

“Ha! Why should I listen to you rant about how I should live my life?!”

“Because you're reckless! And you make dumb choices and I’m sick of waiting around for you to fuck up again. Take things seriously once and awhile.” 

“That's big talk, coming from you. You’re just the epitome of serious and good choices huh?” 

The hurt that flashes in Lance’s eyes is lost in the swirling heat that is roaring up his throat. He is too close, and Lance is shouting too loud and everything is falling apart again. His fists are grabbing onto Lance’s shirt without his permission and Lance is spitting back with a knee that knocks his ribs out of place and his arms hurt, but his fingers are wound too tightly into fabric as he slams Lance against the wall. 

“I’m always wasting time worrying about you. You could die!” 

“Well that's not my problem. I dont fucking care.” 

For some reason this seems to be the point of no return. The pitfall that screams into nothingness. The time when both their red words get stuck in their rotting throats and then Lance’s fist is crushing the delicate bones in his face. And his nose breaks again. “Thats the real problem, I think.” Lance almost whispers, and he won’t look him in the eye anymore. “And it’s selfish as hell.” He watches through the red on his fingers as Lance disappears into the white haze of the afternoon. The blue bracelet on his wrist is ratty and coming loose. 

Keith is left bubbling over. His heart is slamming against his ribs with bruising force and his blood is pulsing too quickly through his swollen veins. With a cry that tears him apart and flays the skin of his throat he throws a wrench hard enough to chip the concrete floor and sinks down, hanging his head in his hands. He doesn't care how much his face hurts, how he can’t see from the swelling, how the blood is gushing and staining his fingers, his jeans, the floor. He doesn't have a capacity for emotions that don’t run red and burn where they touch. He ruins everything good around him. And god does he hate himself. He always ends up hating himself. He always ends up hurting. 

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Keith…” 

“No. Just- arg, I just- Shiro I can’t right now.” 

It takes all his self control to keep his head tipped up as Shiro hovers uncertainly. Keith is tired of coming home with red on his face. Eventually Shiro just sighs heavily and shuffles away to sit on the couch. Keith feels his eyes even as he retreats to the bathroom. He hates disappointing. He hates and he hates and he hates. It's a wonder he ever feels anything else. It's not a surprise it always ends up leaking from his skin. Hate is red and hot and suffocating, but at least it's familiar. 

His face is swollen and his nose is crooked when he curls up on the overstuffed couch in Allura’s office. He tries to find blue in the sky, but it's only darkening to grey and the clouds are hanging heavily enough they might come crashing to earth. The bracelets on his wrist are heavy and uncomfortable against the healing skin. Allura seems less like herself as she perches on the opposite chair. “Hello Keith, how are you this week?” And Keith doesn't have to look to know she is caught on his puffy face and bruised nose, the ugly purples and yellows and greens that scream against the pale pallor of his skin. “Fine.” He says, and they sit in a heavy silence. Everything is heavier today. The seconds click away. Pennies to an hour as he listens to the rain against the window. He wonders if Lance is sitting on his sister’s window bench, reading or braiding or staring out into the storm, hypnoised. He wonders if things will ever be the same. He wonders how rough the ocean is, how high the waves reach against the cliffs. 

Allura clears her throat. Keith snaps back into real time, his head is pounding harder than the rain against the pavement. “I know things have been hard this week, but I feel like its important to tell you what’s happening.” Her voice is steady, even as she looks to him with worried eyes. Keith is sick of worry. Sick of emotions. Sick of himself. “Keith, I’m taking a job opportunity in another state. Next session will be our last.” 

Keith is on his feet. He doesn't know why, but his head is throbbing and his face hurts and he can still taste old betrayal under his tongue. No one ever stays around very long. He’s better at losing friends than making them. Better at shoving people away than holding them close. Allura is no expectation. Lance is no different. And eventually, Shiro will get tired of him too, so what's the point? There is old blood under his nails, glaring red and awful against the soft shades in the office, against the gentleness of Allura’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Keith.” He is sick of her. He wants her to yell and scream and tell him he's unreasonable. She just waits as his temper bleeds old blood from new tears in his semblance of okay. 

There are porcelain pieces on the carpet. Jagged edges from a broken vase. He threw it, or knocked it off, he doesn't remember. He can't focus on everything at once. His racing pulse, the yawning emptiness. The hatred that is swallowing him whole. He is burning from the inside out. He is hurting, and hurting and always hurting and it's his fault. Allura sighs. He wants anger or injustice, something familiar. Not this, not forgiveness or grace or pity. Not Allura’s blue and pink. He wants red. He knows what to do with red. The pink bracelet on his wrist is too loose, with too many frayed knots and not enough carefulness to keep it in place. He doesn't notice when it’s gone. 

Slamming doors are familiar. Wetness against his skin is familiar. Burning is familiar. Boiling over is familiar. The thrum of his bike is farmallir. The screech of tires against wet roads is familiar. The hurt is familiar and he closes his eyes tight. He doesnt read the speed limit signs or watch the traffic lights. He blazes through the rain, he can’t see anyway. A part of him hopes someone will hit him. That at least, would be familiar. 

The week collapses in on itself. Time rushes and slows like the tides. Slipping from his grasp or getting stuck under his nails. He can’t figure out how to write his english essay. He fails more math tests. He burns and hates and can’t escape the emptiness that chases him. Not with angry words at Shiro or opening old wounds with Lance or screaming at teachers over red pen. Shrio reaches for him, sighs loudly, pulls him in for a hug, but he shoves and pushes and digs his elbows into all the soft places he can find. He tears into his brother’s love with sharp words he never means. He yells at the stars in the middle of nowhere until his voice is hoarse and he chokes on the night air. 

There are two bracelets on his wrist when he rides to school. He fiddles with the black one, fingers curling protectively around the thread. He takes a breath that cools the forest fire that is turning his bones to ash. August is ending. Summer is slipping away, he misses and yearns and hurts and hates. Somethings got to give. 

He leans against the table in homeroom, counting the knots on the blue bracelet still tied around Lance’s wrist. “Hey, Lance. I’m sorry. I know I'm reckless and stubborn and I never listen. Even if it's good for me.” His lips move into the painful shape of a smile he isn't sure he really means, but it's for Lance. His best friend looks so relieved. It reminds him of Shiro, the openness of his face when Lance smiles back, eyes crinkling. “We’re good man. Always will be. Even if you don’t listen.” Lance chuckles under his breath before he reaches out to clasp Keith’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I broke your nose.” Keith shrugs, but a portion of the static behind his eyes settles into stillness. He will always be broken, but maybe he doesn't have to leave behind shattered pieces. 

Lance's eyes are warm and blue and a little sad when he turns away, but it's better than leaving things the way they were. “Just don’t throw away your life too quickly, okay? You’re like, the future.” Lance grins, but Keith doesn't make any promises. He doesn’t want a future if it’s red. Keith offers up the most genuine smile he can manage, and it feels a little like goodbye.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major trigger warning!!
> 
> Graphic depiction of sucicide, please read at your own risk

His hands are shaking as he climbs up the gears. Faster, faster and faster, until everything is a blur and he can't hear anything but the wind and the roar of a maxed out engine. He sees red, it's dripping into his eyes, splashing down his cheeks, blooming along his throbbing knuckles. There is a boy behind him, sprawled across a parking lot, shoved between glinting cars. There is a senior with red-rimmed eyes who finally knows how much he hates. His hand might be broken, he can't really tell. It's swelling and purple and ugly, but everything about him is ugly. He heart, his skin, his eyes. He hates and hates and hates hard enough to send everything spiralling out of control. Keith grits his teeth and tries not to scream into the heavy September air. He roars down back roads and takes turns he doesn't know and he doesn't care where he's going, because he knows where we will end up. He knows, he knows, he knows and he hates it. He hates himself. He hates so fiercely he doesn't know how he kept it inside for so long. He’s shattering into jagged pieces smeared in red until all that's left is his whimpering heart and bared soul. 

The cliffs are steep and sharp, tumbling down to the white that foams and froths. He can’t hear the waves over the cacophony of his thoughts. Worthless. Waste of space. Failure. The sky bleeds into black when he opens his eyes again. His bike finally stutters and gives up. There is one bracelet on his wrist when he pulls off the road, it glares red against his snow-fall skin. He stares out at the sea, the lusterless sky, the jagged piece of moon. He climbs over the guardrail and leans against it. There isn't a lower pit. There isn't a darker cave. This is the bottom of the universe, the corner where no one wants to look. He sits alone, eyes upturned towards the stars. Why did they look to the stars for hope and not the graveyard? They are the same. People put too much hope in dead things. 

_You’re never fine! You hide things, you avoid your problems and sometimes I worry that one day you just won’t come home and it scares me Keith!_

_Yeah well, it scares me too._

Not anymore. 

_I’m sick of waiting around for you to fuck up again. I’m always wasting time worrying about you. You could die!_

_Well that's not my problem. I dont fucking care._

Not anymore…….

The night air brushes his cheeks, but he can’t seem to suck enough into his lungs. The sky squeezes in close. His hands shake. His vision blurs and dims and the moon glints too brightly against his blood-shot eyes. Everything is spinning. Shadows reach across the oily grass, grayed by gravel and fumes.

_Worthless. Waste of space. Failure. Worthlesswas te of space. Failureworthless waste of space. Failure worthless waste of space. Failurewprthlesswaste of space failureworthlesswasteofspace. Failureworthlesswaste of space…. Waste._

The blade bites. It chews up pale skin and spits out crimson. The turmoil that threatens to boil over and burn him alive settles as the waves rock against the cliffs. The world stills for a glass moment. He can’t feel it. The cold digs deeper. It burns, a red hot line that warms from the inside out. There is satisfaction there, in the realness that pounds along his nerves and lights up the quiet in his brain. The blade drags, thin-edged teeth that work into his leaking skin and pull out the snake venom of his thoughts. The red shimmers on the surface. Again. Again. Again. It glistens and pools and pours, rolling down his arms and onto the grass. His back presses harder against the guardrail. His breath is coming too fast. He craves the burn that follows, the pain that sets his numb organs to life and draws out the colors frozen under his ruined skin. 

It's solace. Its retribution. It's a settled score of split skin that measures his flaws where he can see. It's groundly tangible in the mud-muddle of his head. And it's terrible because he deserves the lines and the lies and the shame that comes after. The storm clouds that gather in well meaning eyes when they see right through long sleeves. It's a twisted logic that screams he needs to let out the diseased thoughts that are rotting his brain. That the hate cordes his insides to acid. He needs to let it out or it will slosh and fester against his skull. 

But he hates it less than he hates himself and there is an odd comfort in the sharpness. Somehow, He feels better than when his skin was closed. He is tired, as tomorrow looms like a hard to swallow pill. Too tired to be soaked in hate and hiding and more lies. He takes up too much space, the hate is closing in and pushing him out. Soon there will be nothing left. 

Keith stares at his shivering skin, red and pale and aching. He doesn't have to face tomorrow. He can’t face tomorrow. The reasons and matras are wearing thin. His resolve has cracked like his porcelain skin and maybe he has always been too fragile for the real world. There are no second chances. 

The blade bites. Blue swims beneath the surface, icy rivers connecting miles of washed out shore. He stares too hard. His hands shake too much. His fingers twitch and cramp and feel too cold against the sticky warm clotting along the lines on his arms. He digs, down, down, down, to where he can see the thumping ribbons that course beneath his skin. The blue splits, a pressure that snaps to nothingness. Pink skin reopens red. All his anxieties and hate and red emotions spill from the broken dam. Dark wine leaks into the gravel and slicks the grass. His veins feel blissfully light. His chest feels empty, devoid of the hate that screamed for so long in the cavity there. 

The red is abrasive.

Idly, somewhere in the cavernous reach of his back-firing brain there are whispered thoughts of _too deep._

_This is bad._

_I could die._

And maybe in those distorted seconds, the desert of loose sand and crumbling expectations, he knows that. And maybe, leaning against the guardrail under an unfamiliar sky, watching a little bit more of himself escaping in the ruby beads that drip and collect and scar over slowly, he wants to. Tiny spiders crawl over his arms, their pin and needle legs tickling as they swarm towards his eyes, weaving lacey webs that blur his vision. The stars seem cold and distant, disortied lights that blend into black. Shadows reach out and wrap themselves around his slow-firing brain. The air is a little too cold, his body is a little too warm, but the sea sings to him in salt and lost sun-glow. It's quiet and still, and the thumping of his heart doesn't interrupt the night noises.

Suddenly his chest takes a startling lurch and he doesn't want it anymore. Everything is tight, skin stretched taut over gaping veins. The night is opressive and this isn't what normally happens and panic is hotter and fericer and burns brighter than anything he ever decided to fuck himself over with. He fumbles, reaching desperately for something, anything to slow the sea that bubbles from the cracks in his wrists. The night is too bright and space is too big, and his heart won't be still enough to feel anything but the ache that slams his ribs together. His hands are red and wet and too slick to grab the guard rail. Everything smells like rotting pennies in asphalt parking lots and it's sending his systems spiraling. His legs don't remember how to be anything but jelly and _oh god he cant HeCantHeCant_ remember how to move his fingers or work his throat. The guardrail and the road are rotting before his flickering vision and things are going fuzzy.

I.Dont.Want.To.Die

But he messed up again, and maybe he deserves it, but he shouldn't be this scared and it shouldn't feel this awful and he was wrong. This isn't better but the sea won't stop draining and the ground won't stop moving and his thoughts won't stop getting lost. There is nothing beautiful or tragic or profound about this. It's wretched. 

Perhaps this is acceptance, in the silence that blooms in the dead space between the panic and the pull. Perhaps this is surrender, when the ice that clings to the bottom of his ribs begins to frost over his eyelids and they get too heavy to do anything but close. And maybe, this is a wicked awful peace, when he falls asleep in a nest of spider webs and shadows, because he has always been a little bit reckless. He has always gone too fast. He wonders if anyone will balk at another body on the wrong side of the guardrail.


	6. Chapter 5

Every muscle in his legs are throbbing. Lance can feel the dried sweat on his back, the slick sheen where his shin guards were. It was waaaay too hot for september. Lance sighs and waves to a couple of his teammates heading in the opposite direction. He didn't have patience for practice, but he knew hard work was directly proportional to game outcomes, so he sweated with the rest of them and tried his best. He reaches his hands over his head and twists a bit to work out the kinks in his back. He was looking forward to trading gossip with Veronica about how the girl’s team was getting along. 

Sometimes Keith would wait for him after practice, but as he neared the parking lot he didn't see the familiar glare of his red motorcycle. He wasn't surprised, he did break the guys nose after all. Lance chuckles quietly to himself, humming a tune under his breath as he fishes for his keys in his bag. There is a hunched figure on the curb. Lance narrows his eyes, shielding them from the sun as he looks closer. 

It was that senior on the baseball team that split Keith’s lip a while ago. Lance frowns, an ugly feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. The guy was leaning back on his hands, eyes closed and face upturned. He could see the bruises blooming in awful shades of purple and yellow on his jaw. His nose was crushed upward, still dripping blood. It was an eerily familiar sight. Lance sighs, he had a feeling that fight was a long time coming. Shiro certainly wouldn't be pleased. Though Lance would be lying if he didn't feel a surge of satisfaction seeing the guy strung out. He had it coming for sure. 

Lance pulls out his phone and shoots Keith a quick text. 

_‘Dude, that senior looks awful, I hope you got the better end of it?’_

He doesn't get a response immediately, but shrugs it off. Lance starts off towards his truck. His wrist feels itchy. 

He pauses and watches with silent horror as the bracelet Keith made for him, the one that had stayed stubbornly knotted for months, slips quietly to the ground. It feels like a bad omen. Dumbstruck, he follows it down. It lands on the hot asphalt, but when he bends to pick it up, Lance spots the curl of a black bracelet hidden against the pavement. Keith’s bracelet. Lance’s stomach jumps a little, but he tamps down the sudden panic. Keith did just get into a fight, it most likely came off then. He would be happy to see it again. Lance shoves it into his pocket before checking his phone. Still nothing. 

_‘Hey I found your bracelet. I’m going to run it by.’_

He walks a little too quickly to his truck. He pulls his phone out again and dials Keith’s number. The panic was irrational, but things haven't exactly been peachy for either of them lately. He doesn't get an answer. Groaning, he calls Shiro. As expected he picks up quickly.

“Hey, Is Keith home? I found his bracelet but he isn't answering his phone. How banged up is he?”

“Lance? What are you talking about? Keith isn't home yet. I assumed he was waiting for you?” 

“Oh, his bike is gone. I’m pretty sure he got into a good row with that guy who split his lip. I’m going to head over now, maybe he will actually answer if you call him.”

He meant to sound teasing but it didn't quite work. He hangs up and drives a little too fast. His palms are sweating. It's irrational. The guy was probably just stuck in traffic, or being dumb and going on a joy ride. Lance remembers the crippled bike, the shredded jacket sleeves. Keith’s tired eyes and bloodied hands. Lance doesn’t turn down Keith’s street. 

He flies around corners and charges down back roads. He listens for wailing sirens. He looks for flashing lights or rutted grooves in the grass. He doesn't find any of those things, but it doesn't put his mind at ease either. “C’mon Keith.” He mutters as his headlights split the night. They glare against a red motorcycle. Lance slams the breaks so hard he almost hits his head against the steering wheel. He puts the truck in park and stumbles out. 

The bike was fine, no twisted metal, only old rubs and scratches. The blackness is suffocating as he steps closer. Lance is relieved, no sign of a crash. Maybe Keith was just sitting on the cliff, watching the sea. Maybe he just needed to get away for a bit. Lance breathes a heavy sigh of relief when he spots Keith leaning against the guardrail. 

“Keith! What are you doing out here, man?....” 

The words die on his lips. There is no answer. Something horrible is twisting his organs in the wrong direction. Lance gets closer, his throat is tight, like he swallowed gasoline. His hands are shaking, he can’t figure out why. Anxiety is hot and buzzing in his gut. This is ridiculous. 

“Oh god, Keith- No, no- shit man, you idiot- what did you- fuck- Keith!” 

And Keith’s head flops sideways as Lance’s knees hit the dirt. He reaches out, as if Keith might break under the pressure of his fingers. There is a good chance he will. “Hey buddy, can you hear me?” And Keith’s arms are torn apart by long thick lines. The red is so unnatural, rust that corrodes into soft skin and it’s wrong wrong _wrong_. 

Without thinking he presses his fingers against the deepest gashes on his wrists, the ones that still drip crimson when the others have clotted. Keith’s blood is warm and wet under his pressing fingers and it makes Lance sick to his stomach. Keith is bleeding, dying, alone, on the side of the road. Lance’s heart aches. 

“Hey, you need to open your eyes, for me, please?” And by some miracle, Keith lashes flutter and he groans softly. Lance thanks every god he can think of. “Good, I’m going to get you out of here, okay?” Lance is making promises he can’t keep. But its all he can do. He needs to call Shiro. He needs to be somewhere else, with Keith tucked against his side or sitting on the floor teasing him about something dumb, or leaning over a textbook, or knocking foreheads after a winning game or smiling on the other end of the phone.

Anywhere but dying on the side of the road. 

“Keith I need you to keep your eyes open. Talk to me okay?” He grunts with the effort of pulling Keith up, he’s a ragdoll against him, too loose and too soft. “M’sorry.” Keith slurs, blinking heavily, eyes unfocused. This was bad. Really bad. “It’s okay, just take a breath with me, yeah?” Lance heaves Keith up over his shoulder, wobbling sideways. Keith’s fists grab loosely at his back, hands curling desperately into fabric but they can’t hold. His fingers shake and writhe against his back as Keith struggles weakly. It scares him, the reluctance. “You still holding on, buddy?” 

“I… I d’nt want to.” Keith whispers against his back. Lance can feel tears burning behind his eyes. “Too bad. We’re going to the truck.” Keith doesn’t answer. Lance moves as fast as he dares. Blood is running down Keith’s arms. It wets the back of his practice jersey, hot and horrid against the flimsy fabric. “When this is over, I’m going to give you hell.” 

Lance situates Keith as gently as he can in the passenger seat. He doesn’t bother with seatbelts. He’s driving too fast down twisting roads but he doesn’t care because Keith’s head is tipped back and blood is smeared on his dashboard. There is so much blood. “Keith you are not fucking dying in my truck.” He reaches over and grabs Keith’s gaping wrist, holding it tightly. His fingers are slick in seconds. He should have stopped the bleeding. He can’t stop the bleeding. Oh god. “Keith Kogane push that wrist against your leg, now. Please.” Lance hates begging. He shouldn’t under any circumstances be begging his best friend to stop the life from leaking out of his slit wrists but here they are. He is. 

Keith tilts his head slowly, his eyes are vacant even as he tries to smile. “M’okay Lance.” Lance wants to scream. He wants to throw things and cry and strangle him and hold him in the same breath. “No, Keith, please just hold your wrist against something.” 

“The stars are dead, Lance.” Keith sighs wistfully and stares out the window into the darkness. 

Clouds are boiling against the sea, blotting out the hard white of the stars. “Keith, for the love of god, your bleeding out please just look at me.” Keith turns his head like it pains him. “I know.” He whispers. It’s hoarse in the rocking silence of the truck. Lance tastes salt as tears wash down his cheeks. “M’ tired.” Keith says. His eyes slip close. Lance panics and digs his fingers into Keith’s wrist. “Hey, stay awake.” He chokes, his vision is too blurry to see the road lines. “We’re not home yet.” His voice is too high and too tight, but Keith is slumped forward. He looks so small, curled in the passenger seat. Everything is wrong. Keith’s lips are pale and his skin is white and his features are too smooth and he is too still. Lance drives faster and tries not to fall apart. 

It’s raining again. The last summer thunderstorm. Lance can’t find any love for it. Not when the rain is swelling against the windshield. Not when it drowns out the quiet breaths that heave from Keith’s collapsing chest. Not when it slicks the snaking roads and makes his tires spin. He squints against the glare of his headlights, fighting to see through the slanted drops that wash the night in muted greys and inkier shades of black. He is fumbling at the wheel with one hand, the other still clamped tight to Keith’s wrist. His pulse is the slow beat of moth wings before flight. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Keith stares at a white ceiling with water spots he doesn't recognize and tries to remember the feeling of being alive. What day was it? What time? How much of life had moved on without him? Why is he still here? 

The room smells like morning under the heavy layers of disinfectant and general hospital smell. Dewy grass, warm mist, worn-in leather that smells like salt and Lance and home. Keith blinks, golden sunlight spills across the white sheets, dousing his gauze covered arms. He wiggles his fingers experimentally. God his arms hurt. 

The next thing he notices is a heavy weight on his thigh. Lance is slumped over the bed, hair messy as he sleeps. He is wearing his jacket. The new one Shiro left on the passenger seat. The one that didn't smell like asphalt or blood. Keith expects it to look wrong, glaring red against the gentle blues that have always been Lance. For some reason, it doesn't look anything but right. Its a little tight over his shoulders, a little short in the arms, but Lance looks comfortable, features frozen in stillness as his cheek squishes awkwardly against the bed. 

_Fuck._

Hospital.

Arms.

Failure?

Shame. 

Guilt. 

_Keith you are not fucking dying in my truck_

His heart is beating too fast, his legs aren't moving fast enough. The walls are not made for reckless people who scream on the way down. The bed isn't strong enough to hold the weight of his red emotions. He is kicking off sheets and trying to figure out why his legs won't just listen. He feels like sludge, panic is kicking his nerves into overdrive and he can’t hear anything except the static drone of the machines and he’s scrambling away but things are stuck in his arms and _god his arms hurt._

“Hey, easy. You’re fine. Come here.” And Lance is wrapping arms around his waist, red leather flooding his haywire senses. He fights. He pushes and he shoves and pulls away. He is heaving through lungs not used to breathing and staring through eyes not used to seeing. Lance just holds on tighter until the blood stops rushing to his hungry veins and his head stops screaming angry words. 

“Where?” He coughs, a violent sound through his underused throat. “Where am I?” Lance hums, quietly pulling Keith down onto the shiny floor. The tubes that snake away from him like artificial veins rattle and pull against his paper skin. “Hospital. I’m glad you’re awake.” Lance’s voice is sleepy, languidly washing the space back into stillness. Lance readjusts, and Keith settles closer against him. He is taken aback by the warmth that seeps into his skin. Had he always been this cold? 

Keith closes his eyes. Night air. Salt. Blood and fumes and white hot terror that roars through the finality of fatal. “Me too.” He whispers, and Lance won’t let him go, but he can’t really bring himself to mind. It’s harder to fall apart when someone is holding you. It’s harder to wish your heart would stop when someone elses is beating against your ear. It's harder to crave death when everything is so warm and so alive. 

“My jacket doesn't fit you.” 

Lance laughs, resting his head on Keith’s shoulder. “No, not really. I like it anyway.” 

“Im not getting it back huh?”

“Nope, not a chance.” 

Keith smiles. He had enough red things anyway. Frowning, he glances at the gauze on his arms. There were four bracelets on his wrist. The red one, tattered, dark and fraying. It suddenly seemed irrelevant. Like it didn't quite settle as neatly as the others against his throbbing skin. But it's there anyway, always has been, and maybe he will never be able to fully get rid of the red that sears through his life. Maybe he doesn't need to. It’s his hate, but there are some ugly things that just won’t shake loose, and it makes him a little more human. 

The black one, half-crushed, but tied tightly. The color was as steadfast as ever. It reminds him of Shiro and nights spent staring at the sky, not feeling quite so alone under the glitter of the moon. It’s strength. 

The pink one, knotted more carefully than the last, soft hues that settled the erratic tempo of his thoughts. It’s Allura’s knowing eyes and words that fall slowly out of her mouth and land like teardrops against his soul. It’s trust. 

The blue one, knotted the tightest, dipping into navy and royal blue and pale shades of cornflower. It reminds him of the ocean. Of Lance’s eyes and Lance’s arms and Lance’s voice. Blue fire and banter and gull cries that swell into love songs under a summer sun. It’s happiness. It’s safety. It's home. 

He sucks in a bubbling breath, and whispers “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the end! Thanks to everyone who saw it through. Constructive critisism, thoughts and fic requests are welcome below, I hope this ending was satisfying and you lovely people enjoyed it


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